Fleshmarket Alley

by Ian Rankin

  “All my own work.” Mangold almost gave a little bow.

  “And you hired Mr. Evans?”

  “He’s a good worker. I’ve used him before.”

  “What about the concrete floor: any idea who laid that?”

  “As I said, it was all in hand before I moved in.”

  “But completed after you arrived—that’s what you said, isn’t it? Which means you’ll have some documentation somewhere . . . an invoice at the very least?” Rebus offered a smile of his own. “Or was it cash in hand and no questions asked?”

  Mangold bristled. “There’ll be paperwork, yes.” He paused. “Of course, it might have been thrown out, or the brewery could have filed it away somewhere . . .”

  “And who was in charge here before you took over, Mr. Mangold?”

  “I can’t remember.”

  “He didn’t show you the ropes? I thought there was usually a crossover period?”

  “There probably was . . . I just can’t recall his name.”

  “I’m sure it’ll come back to you, with a bit of effort.” He took out one of his business cards from the breast pocket of his jacket. “And you’ll give me a call when it does.”

  “Fair enough.” Mangold accepted the card and made a show of studying it. Rebus saw that Evans was leaving.

  “One last thing for the moment, Mr. Mangold . . . ?”

  “Yes, Detective Inspector?”

  Siobhan was now standing by Rebus’s side. “I just wondered what the name of your club was.”

  “My club?”

  “The one in Falkirk . . . unless you had more than one?”

  “It was called Albatross. After the Fleetwood Mac song.”

  “You didn’t know the poem then?” Siobhan asked.

  “Not until later,” Mangold said through gritted teeth.

  Rebus thanked him but didn’t shake hands. Outside, he looked up and down the street, as if debating where to have his next drink. “What poem?” he asked.

  “Rime of the Ancient Mariner. The sailor shoots an albatross, and it puts a curse on the boat.”

  Rebus nodded slowly. “Like an albatross around your neck?”

  “I supppose so . . .” Her voice tailed off. “What did you think of him?”

  “Fancies himself.”

  “Reckon he was trying for a Matrix look with that coat?”

  “God knows. But we need to keep hassling him. I want to know who laid that concrete and when.”

  “It couldn’t be a setup, could it? To get some publicity for the bar?”

  “Planned well in advance if it is.”

  “Maybe the concrete’s not as old as anyone says.”

  Rebus stared at her. “Been reading any good conspiracy thrillers lately? The Royals bumping off Princess Di? The mafia and JFK . . . ?”

  “Who let Mr. Grumpy out to play?”

  His face was just beginning to soften when he heard a roar from Fleshmarket Alley. A uniform had been posted to stop any passersby using the passage. But he knew Rebus and Siobhan and nodded them through. As Rebus went to step over the threshhold into the cellar, a figure barged into him from within. It was dressed in a business suit and bow tie.

  “Evening, Professor Gates,” Rebus said, once he’d caught his breath. The pathologist stopped and scowled. It was the sort of look which could shrivel an undergraduate at twenty paces, but Rebus was made of stronger stuff.

  “John . . .” Finally recognizing him. “Are you part of this bloody charade?”

  “I will be, once you tell me what it is.”

  Dr. Curt was angling his body sheepishly into the passageway.

  “This bugger,” Gates glowered, indicating his colleague, “has made me miss the first act of La Bohème—and all for some bloody student prank!”

  Rebus looked to Curt for an explanation.

  “They’re fake?” Siobhan guessed.

  “That they are,” Gates said, calming by degrees. “No doubt my esteemed friend here will fill you in on the details . . . unless that, too, proves beyond him. Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .” He marched to the top of the passageway, the uniform at the top giving him all the room he needed. Curt gestured for Rebus and Siobhan to follow him back into the cellar. A couple of the SOCOs were still there, trying to hide their embarrassment.

  “If we’re looking for excuses,” Curt began, “we might mention the initial inadequate lighting. Or the fact that we were dealing with skeletons rather than flesh and blood, the latter potentially far more interesting . . .”

  “What’s with the ‘we’?” Rebus teased. “So are they plastic or what?” He crouched down by the skeletons. Siobhan’s jacket had been tossed aside by the Professor. Rebus handed it back to her.

  “The infant is, yes. Plastic or some kind of composite. I’d have noticed the moment I touched any part of it.”

  “Course you would,” Rebus said. He saw that Siobhan was trying to show not the least scintilla of pleasure at Curt’s downfall.

  “The adult, on the other hand, is an actual skeleton,” Curt continued. “But probably very old, and used for teaching purposes.” The pathologist crouched down beside Rebus, Siobhan joining them.

  “How do you mean?”

  “Holes drilled in the bones . . . do you see them?”

  “Not easy, even in this light.”

  “Quite.”

  “And the point of the holes is . . . ?”

  “There would have been connecting devices of some kind, screws or wires. To join one bone to its neighbor.” He lifted a femur and pointed to the two neatly drilled holes. “You find them in museum exhibits.”

  “Or teaching hospitals?” Siobhan guessed.

  “Quite right, DS Clarke. It’s a lost art these days. Used to be done by specialists called articulators.” Curt got to his feet, brushing his hands together as though to wipe away all trace of his earlier mistake. “We used to use them a lot with students. Not so much now. Certainly not real ones. Skeletons can be realistic without being real.”

  “As has just been demonstrated,” Rebus couldn’t help saying. “So where does that leave us? You reckon the Prof’s right, it’s some sort of practical joke?”

  “If so, someone’s gone to an inordinate amount of trouble. Removing the screws and any bits of wire and the like would have taken hours.”

  “Has anyone reported skeletons going missing from the university?” Siobhan asked.

  Curt seemed to hesitate. “Not that I’m aware.”

  “But they’re a specialist item, right? You don’t just walk into your local Safeway and pick one up?”

  “I would presume that to be the case . . . I’ve not been to a Safeway recently.”

  “Bloody weird all the same,” Rebus muttered, standing up. Siobhan, however, stayed crouched over the infant.

  “It’s sick,” she said.

  “Maybe you were right, Shiv.” Rebus turned to Curt. “Only five minutes ago, she was wondering if it might be a publicity stunt.”

  Siobhan shook her head. “But like you said, it’s a lot of trouble to take. There’s got to be more to it.” She was clutching her coat to her, as though cradling a baby. “Any chance you could examine the adult skeleton?” She stared up at Curt, who offered a shrug.

  “Looking for what, exactly?”

  “Anything that might give us a clue who it is, where it came from . . . some idea of how old it is.”

  “To what end?” Curt had narrowed his eyes, showing he was intrigued.

  Siobhan stood up. “Maybe Professor Gates isn’t the only one who likes a puzzle with a bit of history attached.”

  “You’d best give in, Doc,” Rebus said with a smile. “It’s the only way to shake her off.”

  Curt looked at him. “Now who does that remind me of?”

  Rebus opened his arms wide and gave a shrug.

  DAY TWO

  Tuesday

  3

  For want of anything better to do, Rebus found himself at the mortuary next
morning, where the autopsy of the as yet unidentified Knoxland corpse was already under way. The viewing gallery comprised three tiers of benches, separated by a wall of glass from the autopsy suite. The place made some visitors queasy. Maybe it was the clinical efficiency of it all: the stainless steel tables with their drainage outlets; the jars and specimen bottles. Or the way the entire operation resembled too closely the skills seen in any butcher’s shop—the carving and filleting by men in aprons and Wellingtons. A reminder not only of mortality but of the body’s animal engineering, the human spirit reduced to meat on a slab.

  There were two other spectators present—a man and a woman. They nodded a greeting at Rebus, the woman shifting slightly as he sat down next to her.

  “Morning,” he said, waving through the glass to where Curt and Gates were busy at work. The rules of corroboration meant that two pathologists had to attend every autopsy, stretching a service that was already past snapping point.

  “What brings you here?” the man asked. His name was Hugh Davidson, known to all by the nickname “Shug.” He was a detective inspector at the West End police station in Torphichen Place.

  “Apparently you do, Shug. Something to do with a shortage of high-flying officers.”

  Davidson’s face twitched in what might have been a smile. “And when did you get your pilot’s license, John?”

  Rebus ignored this, choosing to focus on Davidson’s companion instead. “Haven’t seen you in a while, Ellen.”

  Ellen Wylie was a detective sergeant, Davidson her boss. She had a box file open on her lap. It looked brand-new, and contained only a few sheets of paper as yet. A case number was written at the top of the first page. Rebus knew that it would soon swell to bursting with reports, photographs, lists of staff rotas. It was the Murder Book: the “bible” for the forthcoming investigation.

  “I heard you were out at Knoxland yesterday,” Wylie said, eyes fixed ahead of her as if watching a film which would stop making sense the moment her attention lapsed. “Having a nice long chat with a representative from the fourth estate.”

  “And for the benefit of our English-speaking viewers . . . ?”

  “Steve Holly,” she stated. “And in the context of this current inquiry, the phrase ‘English-speaking’ could be construed as racist.”

  “That’s because everything’s racist or sexist these days, sweetheart.” Rebus paused for a reaction, but she wasn’t about to oblige. “Last I heard, we’re not allowed to say ‘accident blackspot’ or ‘Indian summer.’”

  “Or ‘manhole cover,’” Davidson added, leaning forward to make eye contact with Rebus, who shook his head at the madness of it all before sitting back to take in the scene through the glass.

  “So how’s Gayfield Square?” Wylie asked.

  “Moments away from having its name changed for being politically incorrect.”

  This got a laugh from Davidson, loud enough to have the faces through the glass turning towards him. He held up a hand in apology, covering his mouth with the other one. Wylie scribbled something into the Murder Book.

  “Looks like detention for you, Shug,” Rebus offered. “So how are things shaping up? Got any idea who he is yet?”

  It was Wylie who answered. “Loose change in his pockets . . . not even as much as a set of house keys.”

  “And nobody coming forward to claim him,” Davidson added.

  “Door-to-door?”

  “John, this is Knoxland we’re talking about.” Meaning no one was talking. It was a tribal thing, handed down from parent to child. Whatever happened, you didn’t give the police anything.

  “And the media?”

  Davidson handed Rebus a folded tabloid. The killing hadn’t made the front page; the byline on page five was Steve Holly’s: ASYLUM DEATH RIDDLE. As Rebus skimmed down the paragraphs, Wylie turned to him.

  “I wonder who it was that mentioned asylum seekers.”

  “Not me,” Rebus answered. “Holly just makes this stuff up. ‘Sources close to the investigation.’” He snorted. “Which one of you does he mean by that? Or maybe he means both?”

  “You’re not making any friends here, John.”

  Rebus handed back the newspaper. “How many warm bodies have you got working the case?”

  “Not enough,” Davidson conceded.

  “Yourself and Ellen?”

  “Plus Charlie Reynolds.”

  “And yourself apparently,” Wylie added.

  “I’m not sure I like the odds.”

  “There are some keen uniforms working door-to-door,” Davidson said, defensively.

  “No problem then—case solved.” Rebus saw that the autopsy was reaching its conclusion. The corpse would be sewn back together by one of the assistants. Curt motioned that he’d meet the detectives downstairs, then disappeared through a door to change out of his scrubs.

  The pathologists had no office of their own. Curt was waiting in a gloomy corridor. There were sounds from inside the staff room: a kettle coming to the boil, a game of cards reaching some sort of climax.

  “The Prof’s done a runner?” Rebus guessed.

  “He has a class in ten minutes.”

  “So what have you got for us, Doctor?” Ellen Wylie asked. If she’d ever possessed a gift for small talk, it had been annihilated some time ago.

  “Twelve separate wounds in total, almost certainly the work of the same blade. A kitchen knife perhaps, serrated edge, only a centimeter wide. Deepest penetration was five centimeters.” He paused, as if to allow for any lewd jokes in the vicinity. Wylie cleared her throat in warning. “The one to the throat probably ended his life. Nicked the carotid artery. Blood in the lungs suggests he may have choked on the stuff.”

  “Any defense wounds?” Davidson asked.

  Curt nodded. “Palm, fingertips, and wrists. Whoever they were, he was fighting them off.”

  “But you think just the one attacker?”

  “Just the one knife,” Curt corrected Davidson. “Not quite the same thing.”

  “Time of death?” Wylie asked. She was jotting down as much information as she could.

  “Deep-body temperature was taken at the scene. He probably died half an hour before you were alerted.”

  “Incidentally,” Rebus asked, “just who did alert us?”

  “Anonymous call at thirteen-fifty,” Wylie replied.

  “Or ten to two in old money. Male caller?”

  Wylie shook her head. “Female, calling from a phone box.”

  “And we’ve got the number?”

  More nodding. “Plus the conversation was recorded. We’ll trace the caller, given time.”

  Curt studied his watch, wanting to be on his way.

  “Anything else you can tell us, Doctor?” Davidson asked.

  “Victim seems to have been in general good health. Slightly undernourished, but with good teeth—either didn’t grow up here or never succumbed to the Scottish diet. A specimen of the stomach contents—what there was of it—will go to the lab today. His last meal would seem to have been less than hearty: mostly rice and veg.”

  “Any idea of his race?”

  “I’m not an expert.”

  “We appreciate that, but all the same . . .”

  “Middle Eastern? Mediterranean . . . ?” Curt’s voice drifted off.

  “Well, that narrows things down,” Rebus said.

  “No tattoos or distinguishing features?” Wylie asked, still writing furiously.

  “None.” Curt paused. “This will all be typed up for you, DS Wylie.”

  “Just gives us something to work with in the interim, sir.”

  “Such dedication is rare these days.” Curt offered her a smile. It did not fit well on his gaunt face. “You know where to find me if any other questions arise . . .”

  “Thank you, Doctor,” Davidson said. Curt turned towards Rebus.

  “John, a quick word if I may . . . ?” His eyes met Davidson’s. “Personal rather than business,” he explained. He steere
d Rebus by the elbow towards the far door, and through it into the mortuary’s main holding area. There was no one around; at least, no one with a pulse. A wall of metal drawers faced them; opposite it was the loading bay where the fleet of gray vans would drop off the unceasing roll call of the dead. The only sound was the background hum of refrigeration. Despite this, Curt looked to left and right, as if fearing they might be overheard.

  “About Siobhan’s little request,” he said.

  “Yes?”

  “Perhaps you could let her know that I’m willing to accede.” Curt’s face came close to Rebus’s. “But only on the understanding that Gates never finds out.”

  “Reckon he’s got too much ammo on you as it is?”

  A nerve twitched in Curt’s left eye. “I’m sure he’s already blurted out the story to anyone who’ll listen.”

  “We were all taken in by those bones, Doc. It wasn’t just you.”

  But Curt seemed lost. “Look, just tell Siobhan it’s being done on the quiet. I’m the only one she should talk to about it, understood?”

  “It’ll be our secret,” Rebus assured him, placing a hand on his shoulder. Curt stared at the hand forlornly.

  “Why is it you remind me of one of Job’s comforters?”

  “I hear what you’re saying, Doc.”

  Curt looked at him. “But you don’t understand a word, am I right?”

  “Right as usual, Doc. Right as usual.”

  Siobhan realized that she’d been staring at her computer screen for the past few minutes, without really seeing what was written there. She got up and walked over to the table with the kettle on it, the one where Rebus should have been sitting. DCI Macrae had been into the room a couple of times, on both occasions seeming almost satisfied that Rebus was nowhere to be seen. Derek Starr was in his own office, discussing a case with someone from the Procurator Fiscal’s department.

  “Want a coffee, Col?” Siobhan asked.

  “No, thanks,” Tibbet replied. He was stroking his throat, fingers lingering on what looked like a patch of razor burn. His eyes never left his computer screen, and his voice when he’d spoken had been otherworldly, as though he were barely connected to the here and now.

  “Anything interesting?”